Philip, silent still, returned to the photograph of Toledo, which seemed to him the most arresting picture of them all.  He could not take his eyes off it.  He felt strangely that he was on the threshold of some new discovery in life.  He was tremulous with a sense of adventure.  He thought for an instant of the love that had consumed him:  love seemed very trivial beside the excitement which now leaped in his heart.  The picture he looked at was a long one, with houses crowded upon a hill; in one corner a boy was holding a large map of the town; in another was a classical figure representing the river Tagus; and in the sky was the Virgin surrounded by angels.  It was a landscape alien to all Philip’s notion, for he had lived in circles that worshipped exact realism; and yet here again, strangely to himself, he felt a reality greater than any achieved by the masters in whose steps humbly he had sought to walk.  He heard Athelny say that the representation was so precise that when the citizens of Toledo came to look at the picture they recognised their houses.  The painter had painted exactly what he saw but he had seen with the eyes of the spirit.  There was something unearthly in that city of pale gray.  It was a city of the soul seen by a wan light that was neither that of night nor day.  It stood on a green hill, but of a green not of this world, and it was surrounded by massive walls and bastions to be stormed by no machines or engines of man’s invention, but by prayer and fasting, by contrite sighs and by mortifications of the flesh.  It was a stronghold of God.  Those gray houses were made of no stone known to masons, there was something terrifying in their aspect, and you did not know what men might live in them.  You might walk through the streets and be unamazed to find them all deserted, and yet not empty; for you felt a presence invisible and yet manifest to every inner sense.  It was a mystical city in which the imagination faltered like one who steps out of the light into darkness; the soul walked naked to and fro, knowing the unknowable, and conscious strangely of experience, intimate but inexpressible, of the absolute.  And without surprise, in that blue sky, real with a reality that not the eye but the soul confesses, with its rack of light clouds driven by strange breezes, like the cries and the sighs of lost souls, you saw the Blessed Virgin with a gown of red and a cloak of blue, surrounded by winged angels.  Philip felt that the inhabitants of that city would have seen the apparition without astonishment, reverent and thankful, and have gone their ways.

Athelny spoke of the mystical writers of Spain, of Teresa de Avila, San Juan de la Cruz, Fray Luis de Leon; in all of them was that passion for the unseen which Philip felt in the pictures of El Greco:  they seemed to have the power to touch the incorporeal and see the invisible.  They were Spaniards of their age, in whom were tremulous all the mighty exploits of a great nation:  their fancies were rich with